What happens when fashion stops being a human expression and becomes just another data point?
The relentless push towards digital identities is no longer just about individuals - it extends to objects, including fashion. Under the guise of sustainability and traceability, the industry is being reshaped by a system where garments are embedded with blockchain tags, AI-driven authentication, and digital certification. The UN Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), often presented as a climate solution, are a driving force behind this transformation, but the reality is far more dystopian. Instead of preserving craftsmanship or reducing waste, these initiatives are paving the way for a future where fashion is just another tool in the expanding web of surveillance, data control, and digital commodification.
Paolo Carzana, however, is having none of it.
Making as Resistance
As one of the most radical designers to emerge in recent years, Carzana’s work explicitly rejects this digital imposition. Trained at the University of Westminster, his practice is rooted in hand-making, slow processes, and the physical, communal act of creating. Every element of his work, from the natural dyes he extracts from plants to his rejection of digital mediation, asserts that fashion is, first and foremost, a human and material experience - not a digital asset.
In many ways, Carzana’s resistance echoes that of William Morris, the 19th-century designer and socialist who stood against the mechanisation of design during the Industrial Revolution. Morris saw industrialisation as a system that devalued human labour, stripping both objects and workers of their souls. He championed the return to handcraft, rejecting the uniformity and soullessness of mass production in favour of pieces that bore the mark of their maker. Today, Carzana’s rejection of AI-driven fashion and digital identity follows a similar path, his garments, dyed with natural pigments and painstakingly hand-crafted, stand in opposition to the cold efficiency of algorithmically generated clothing.
His Spring 2025 collection, presented in his own backyard, embodied this philosophy. The garments, made from organic and salvaged materials, were hand-dyed using vegetables, flowers, and spices, methods that cannot be replicated by AI or reduced to a trackable data stream. As fashion brands rush towards digital identity systems and AI-generated clothing, Carzana’s work insists that the future of fashion should not be dictated by algorithms or sustainability initiatives designed to control, rather than liberate, creativity.
Rejecting the Digital Commodification of Fashion
The imposition of digital identity on garments is often framed as progress, fashion tech companies tout blockchain authentication, digital product passports, and AI-driven supply chains as necessary innovations. The UN SDGs reinforce these practices, encouraging traceability and transparency. But what is really at stake?
This digital infrastructure does not exist to support artisanship or small-scale production; it is designed for mass production, data harvesting, and control. Fashion objects, like people, are being given digital identities not for their benefit, but for those who seek to monetise and regulate them. When every garment is linked to a digital passport, tracked from production to resale, ownership and access can be easily restricted. Carzana’s refusal to participate in this system is a political act, one that recognises the dangers of allowing physical objects to be absorbed into the logic of the digital economy.
His work is a rejection of the ideology that insists everything must be measured, tracked, and assigned a unique digital signature. Instead of clothing that exists to be authenticated by blockchain, Carzana’s garments exist to be worn, touched, and lived in, free from digital oversight.
The Real Future of Fashion: Who’s Brave Enough to Fight for It?
Paolo Carzana’s resistance is about more than nostalgia for craftsmanship. His approach poses a crucial question: What kind of future do we want for fashion? One where AI dictates aesthetics, garments are reduced to QR codes, and the act of making is secondary to the extraction of data? Or one where clothing remains a deeply human expression, resistant to the logic of digital commodification?
William Morris fought against the dehumanisation of design in his time; Paolo Carzana is doing the same today. Both remind us that fashion, at its best, is an act of human connection, one that cannot and should not be reduced to a digital ledger.
Can fashion survive as a human-centred practice, or are we witnessing the last generation of designers who prioritise making over data-driven optimisation?
S.S. Daley’s latest show at London Fashion Week is a reminder of just how far Steven Stokey-Daley has come since graduating from Westminster in 2020. When I taught him, it was clear that his approach to menswear was never just about the clothes. It was about the stories they told, the emotions they evoked, and the cultural references woven into every stitch.
Today, his brand has become synonymous with a deeply personal British narrative that interrogates class, queerness, and nostalgia with a theatrical flair. His collections are rooted in the very institutions that shaped Britain’s elite, yet they subtly subvert their traditions. That fascination began in our studios at Westminster, overlooking the playing fields of Harrow School, where he watched the next generation of political leaders unknowingly become part of his fashion lexicon.
S.S. Daley is not just about romantic storytelling. His time interning at Alexander McQueen and Tom Ford gave him a grounding in the realities of craftsmanship, drape, and tailoring. He once admitted to being intimidated by tailoring, yet his collections now embrace it in a way that feels intuitive. He balances soft, fluid silhouettes with traditional menswear codes. He understands that menswear is not just about creating an image for the runway. It has to work on a body, on a rail, and in a wardrobe.
Watching his journey over the last five years, what stands out is his ability to capture the mood of the times. His collections are not dictated by trends but by a deeper and more instinctive understanding of what feels right at this moment. Today, SS Daley is not just a brand. It is a perspective that redefines British menswear through a lens of tenderness, theatricality, and quiet rebellion.
Stone Island didn’t become a cultural force through runway shows, celebrity endorsements, or hype-driven marketing. It became iconic because of its relentless focus on innovation, function, and an uncompromising sense of identity.
For many, Stone Island is inseparable from British football culture, but its roots run much deeper. From technical fabrics to terrace fashion, its influence has spanned subcultures, music, and contemporary luxury. But how did this Italian brand, once a niche technical outerwear label, evolve into one of the most enduring symbols of masculinity, identity, and subcultural status?
To understand why Stone Island became central to British menswear, we need to look at the football casuals of the 1980s. These were not just football fans; they were, in many ways, modern-day Grand Tourists. Instead of returning from Europe with art and antiquities, they brought back something far more personal - Italian menswear.
Stone Island wasn’t just a fashion statement; it was a symbol of cultural capital. Wearing it wasn’t about following trends, it was about belonging to an elite, knowing group. Casuals didn’t just buy clothes; they curated them, making specific brands like Stone Island and C.P. Company signifiers of status, taste, and a deeper understanding of style.
Innovation Over Hype: Massimo Osti’s Vision
Stone Island’s appeal wasn’t built on celebrity culture. It wasn’t about luxury for luxury’s sake. Its foundation was always on technical innovation. Massimo Osti, the brand’s founder, wasn’t a fashion designer in the traditional sense. He was an engineer of garments, experimenting with fabrics that changed colour, reflected light, or had military-grade durability. Wearing a Stone Island jacket wasn’t about being fashionable, it was a statement about function, materiality, and technical design.
The Masculine Aesthetic: Military, Function, and Identity
Stone Island’s success is deeply tied to ideas of masculinity. Osti understood how military uniform functioned as a symbol of discipline, strength, and identity. His designs, with their detachable compass badge, industrial fabrics, and utilitarian silhouettes, tapped into this visual language, offering men a way to embody these ideals.
By the 1980s, traditional masculine roles were eroding, mass unemployment and economic shifts meant fewer men wore uniforms for work. Instead, they found new ways to reclaim them. Stone Island became the modern uniform, replacing military identity with a new, self-defined masculinity.
More Than Football: Music, Subculture, and Street Credibility
While the brand was first adopted on the terraces, it quickly found resonance far beyond football. By the 1990s, Stone Island had become an integral part of UK music culture, from garage to jungle to grime.
UK garage & jungle – Worn by artists and DJs as part of a wider terrace aesthetic.
Grime culture – Skepta, Dave, and other leading figures integrated Stone Island into their visual identity.
Hip-hop & luxury crossover – Drake and A$AP Nast brought it into the high-end streetwear conversation.
Stone Island’s ability to move across subcultural lines while retaining its authenticity is what made it so enduring.
The Moncler Era: Has Stone Island Changed?
In 2020, Moncler acquired Stone Island, a move that signalled a shift in its identity. The question now is: can it remain true to its roots, or has it entered a new era of luxury positioning?
Some argue that Stone Island’s exclusivity, once built on word-of-mouth knowledge and niche appreciation, is now being diluted. Others see its move into the luxury market as a natural evolution, similar to how brands like Prada, Balenciaga, and Louis Vuitton have adapted to new audiences. The real question is whether its core audience, those who wore it before it was mainstream, will continue to embrace it.
Final Thoughts: Is Stone Island Still a Subcultural Icon?
Stone Island started as a brand for those in the know. It wasn’t about hype, it was about quality, innovation, and a deeply ingrained sense of identity. Today, it sits at a crossroads. Is it still a cultural symbol for those who shaped its history, or has it become just another status brand?